


Half Past Midnight

by igxpin



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Drug Addiction, M/M, Murder Husbands, Organized Crime, Sexual Content, Smoking, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:41:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29267403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/igxpin/pseuds/igxpin
Summary: A suspiciously wealthy french gentleman and an ex-sniper turned photographer slowly but inevitably fall in love, ending up running an illegal business, getting married in Las Vegas, and dealing with their junkie baseball-prodigy son. Set in the 80's.
Relationships: Sniper/Spy (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Check tags before reading !!!  
> English is not my first language, so feel free to point out wonky writing or grammar errors!  
> Being set in the 80s, I tried my best to be historically accurate, but I might make mistakes. Again, please let me know!  
> Hope you enjoy :^)

He shouldn’t have stepped into that bathroom. He shouldn’t have seen what he saw.

The first thing Mick noticed was the smell of blood. It was so intense he could taste the iron on the back of his tongue. It wasn’t something he was used to; he only ever killed from far away. He never went closer. He wouldn’t dare to. He never saw a dead body this close, either.

It laid, eyes still open, limbs unnaturally twisted, like a broken mannequin, into the Jacuzzi. The pearly white of the ceramic made a sharp contrast with the deep red of the blood that was still quietly gurgling from the cut in the poor bastard’s throat.

Mick stood, slowly shifting his eyes from the body to the man in front of him. He was still in his evening suit, stained knife in hand. Mick remembered they had bought that suit together just some days prior. It was tailored. Very expensive, too. And now it was covered in blood.

The man sighed.

“ _On aurait pu être tellement plus ... quelle honte,_ ” he spoke in French.

He quickly closed the distance between them and swung the knife in Mick’s direction. He barely managed to avoid the sharp blade, swearing, and grabbed the other’s wrist. He looked surprised. When Mick twisted it, he dropped the knife. It was immediately kicked away. The man elbowed his stomach, slipping away from his grip. Mick bent, in pain. He stumbled a few steps away. They carefully circled each other in the wide bathroom. Only their heavy breathing and the sound of the steps on the tiles could be heard.

“Impressive, _mon chéri_ ,” he stated, slicking his hair back. But his eyes conveyed no emotion.

Mick couldn’t recognize the man he met just a few months earlier.

“The hell’s wrong with you?” he yelled.

The man didn’t reply. He exploited Mick’s momentary distraction and landed a punch, bruising his cheekbone. The second punch made him tilt his head and see double. The third time Mick dodged and stepped behind him. He grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the mirror. Glass shards went everywhere. The man screamed, eyes shut from the blood dripping down his forehead, and dropped to his knees. While Mick went for a kick in the stomach, he reached out with one hand and frantically grabbed a sharp piece of glass. He got up and blindly swung. Mick felt a burning on his check and realized he was hit, and bleeding. Anger filled his senses and he charged at the man, growling, and they both fell to the floor. He pinned the other’s thin body down with his weight and grabbed the collar of that goddamn suit. He slammed the back of his head on the cold pavement one, two, three times, grunting. Then he put his hand on the other’s neck and squeezed. The man’s gloved hands went immediately up to try to slip in-between, but Mick was stronger. He slid two finger under the jaw, finding the right spot. Only one firm movement was needed. One quick pull and the man under him would be dead and cold. It could pass as self-defense, after all. But he stopped, panting, and looked into the raging eyes of the person he thought he loved.

“Give me one good reason not to snap your bloody neck right now,” he breathed out.

The other one looked up at him. His eyes were blood-shot and full of hatred. He had little pieces of glass still stuck on his skin, blood generously pouring down onto his face from the deep cut on his forehead. His salt and pepper hair stuck to it.

Mick cursed himself for thinking he was still so gorgeous, even like this.

The man looked like he was thinking for a moment. He spoke, voice raspy.

“Come work for me.”

\----------------------

His name was René. Mick met him for the first time in some shitty bar in the New York City suburbs. He was the most beautiful man Mick ever saw. He was so beautiful his figure clashed with the rotten ugliness of the world around him. He stood out in that bar like a refined diamond stands out in a chest of rocks. Mick’s tastes in men, just like his tastes in women, had always been on the young and feminine side, but this particular man’s elegance and charm pulled him in like a magnet even from across the room. He sat alone, sipping on what he later learned to be Montenegro, and when their eyes met, Mick felt a warm feeling in his chest, like hot honey was being poured inside of his body.

He took off his sunglasses and hanged them in the collar of his shirt while standing up from his seat and walked in the man’s direction, hands in pockets. The walk from one side of the counter to the other felt five minutes long. He wasn’t even sure the stranger fancied men at all. He shrugged off the thought. He knew he could handle a bar fight if his plan backfired. Regardless, his heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his ears. He cursed mentally, asking himself since when did flirting with strangers made him this nervous. During his relationship with René, he learned that being with him made him feel like he was 17 again.

He sat in the empty chair beside him and knocked two times on the wooden counter.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” he said to the bartender with a tilt of the head in the charming stranger’s direction.

That was enough to catch the other’s attention. He slowly looked up from his drink to face Mick. Their eyes met again. God, from up close he was even more stunning. It made Mick even more nervous.

“Make it two,” he added, without breaking eye contact.

_Yes_ , Mick thought.

_He might fancy men after all._

The bartender nodded and went to grab the bottle of liquor.

“How kind of you, Monsieur…?” he spoke. His voice was silky smooth.

“Mundy,” he held out his hand. “Michael Mundy.”

The man took off his right leather glove with his teeth in one swift motion and shook his hand firmly. His hands were surprisingly small, and soft.

“I’m René.”

Mick was so captivated by the small interaction that he slightly jumped when their now full glasses were put down on the counter with a thud.

“ _Merci,_ ” he thanked the bartender quietly.

They took a sip in silence.

“French, huh?” Mick spoke up from his glass.

The man smiled mischievously.

“ _Oui_. Born and raised,” he paused. “Australian, huh?” he mocked him, taking another sip.

Mick smiled. “Yeah. Born and raised,” he mocked back.

“What’s a European gentleman like you doing in this shithole?”

René vaguely gesticulated with his hand. “Business.”

“What kind of business?” he asked.

“My business. Surely not yours.”

Mick raised an eyebrow.

“Alright... I’ll tell you my business then, if you don’t mind.”

“Please, I’m urging to know,” he replied sarcastically.

“Well…” Mick paused, taken back by his snappy responses. “I’m a photographer. I travel the world by van. It doesn’t pay much, but- “

“I can tell.”

“Screw you. But,” they both chuckled. “It makes me happy. Much better than my older job. I meet some pretty interesting fellas from time to time.”

René took a long sip.

“Am I one of them?”

Mick pretended to think for a moment.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

René let out an outraged “ _hmpf!_ ”

“I must haven’t drank enough to be interesting, then.”

“You might be right. Let me buy you another round,” he made a sign to the bartender.

And after that second round came a third. And a fourth. Mick’s head began to spin.

Soon they were both laughing, jackets were taken off, and a bright red color flushed their cheeks.

“I’d love to see what kind of pictures you take,” René said while lighting up a cigarette. He offered one to Mick, and lighted up that one too. He flicked shut the lighter and took a long drag.

“I have them in my camper van. I can show ‘em to you. I’d love to photograph you sometimes,” Mick let himself say. _You’re a work of art_ , he thought. _I’d love to photograph your beautiful body_ , he thought. He hoped that he could somehow communicate these thoughts to René through his eyes. And his eyes were already quite playing tricks on him. They drifted off from the man’s face, to his neck, to his partially unbuttoned white shirt. Maybe they stayed there for a bit too long. Maybe he wanted René to notice that.

“Sometimes?” he asked, letting out a cloud of smoke. “Why not now?”

“I dunno,” Mick slurred, the cigarette hanging from his lips. He brought his wrist to eye level and read the time on his watch. It was already half past midnight.

“It’s gotten late, don’t you have a home to go back to? A family?” He paused and stared. “A wife?”

René took another long drag, in silence. He exhaled, deeply and systemically. Mick kept staring.

He finally spoke, slowly.

“Mick- Can I call you Mick?”

Mick nodded.

“Mick… you ask too many questions for my tastes.”

“Mate, I’m just trying to make friends. Don’t you want to be friends?”

“I’m afraid we can’t be friends.”

He laid back in his seat.

“We’ll never be friends.”

Mick smirked.

\--

Ten minutes later, they left the bar and headed to Mick’s van.

Thirty minutes later, they were naked on Mick’s stained bed, panting into each other’s mouth, kissing and touching their bodies. And not so long after, they were calling each other’s name as they reached the orgasm.

\--

René left in the morning.

Mick saw him close the door behind his back from the bed. It smelled like him.

He ran outside in his boxers into the crisp morning air.

René was inside a phone booth near the road. He stepped outside, hearing the camper door slam open.

His messy hair was waving in the wind. The blueish light from the morning sky sat on his featured ever so softly, making him look like the best sculpture of a Greek artist.

Mick tried his best to imprint that image into his brain.

“Will I see you again?” he yelled, already knowing the answer.

“If you play your cards right,” he winked.

He held eye contact for a second, then he turned his back on Mick and started walking away.

\---

The door closed behind the Australian man with a creak. He dropped onto a chair. He felt a headache creeping in.

René… what an exceptional man. He’d never forget him.

Mick stood up and went to pop open a beer bottle.

Shit, he had forgotten to photograph him. Guess I’ve only got my memories left to wank off to now, he thought while gulping down the beer. What a shame.

He decided he would at least immortalize the moment with a picture of the place where it happened. He looked around for his camera. Where the bloody hell did he put it?

He searched under the sheets and in his drawers. Maybe it fell under the couch?

Mick froze. Wait, it couldn’t be…

He hurried to pick up his clothes from the floor where he left them the night before. He frantically searched in his pockets, finding his wallet. He opened it.

It was empty.

All of his money, gone.

His equipment, stolen.

He stayed still, kneeling on the floor, looking into his wallet. He blinked slowly.

“Motherfucker.”

\--

Outside, on the road, René stepped into the passenger seat of a luxurious car and slammed the door shut.

“Thanks for picking me up,” he said flatly. He then carelessly threw the stolen Polaroid in the backseat and lighted up a cigarette.

“Mind if I smoke in here?”

The other squinted his eyes behind the tiny glasses. “Who’s zhat poor man?”

The two of them looked over to the van. They were far enough not to be seen but they could easily spot Mick kicking the dirt outside and cussing at the sky.

René snorted.

“Someone stupid enough to let me sleep with them.”

“I reckon it didn’t end up vell.”

“A correct diagnosis indeed, Doctor.”

They went silent for a while, still staring at the stupid, screaming, half-naked man.

Then they looked at each other and chuckled darkly.

The [red Bizzarrini 5300](http://i.kinja-img.com/gawker-media/image/upload/s--M6LyUnaU--/c_fit,fl_progressive,q_80,w_636/19fzp9ihwviwvjpg.jpg) made a roaring noise as it drove off into the sunrise.

The white van stayed there for days.


	2. Chapter 2

The second time they met it was in California, a couple of months after the first encounter. Mick had some of his pictures exposed in an improvised art gallery in downtown LA. His name made it into the local newspaper along with some bigger ones. When René read “Michael Mundy” on the Los Angeles Times he nearly choked on his Martini. 

He decided to put on his best suit and drove all the way to the shady alley in which the exposition took place. The smell of marijuana immediately invaded his nostrils. It was quite crowded. Mostly young people, a lot of hippies, and afros, and queers. They were chatting and smoking by the pictures, pointing out this detail or that light. A chunky radio was blasting out [Whitney Houston music.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eH3giaIzONA) Some people gave René dirty looks. He was way too well-dressed. They must have thought he was a cop.  
He walked past the other photographers’ works to find Mick’s. He stopped to observe the pictures. They were all in black and white. Breasts, hands, legs and pubes were hanging on the brick walls for everyone’s eyes to see. Some pictures were more abstract and experimental, unidentified liquids blending in together, or fragments of light caught on the lenses. A lot of dirty, abandoned places, too. A still-life of a rotten fruit basket, the apples and pears covered in maggots and mold. An old, wrinkled naked woman, wearing the skull of a cow on her head. The man had a preference for the grotesque, it seemed. There was something about the composition and cut of the pictures that was so crude, almost arrogant. René was deeply fascinated. The bushman undeniably had a talent for it, he thought to himself, pleased, and a little surprised. He wasn’t expecting such sensibility and taste from him.

He found Mick conversing with a stranger by the vending machine. Needless to say the Australian wasn’t too happy to see him.

His face dropped when their eyes met, once again.  
He excused himself from the conversation and dragged René in a corner, far from the crowd.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice into a whisper, face livid. He could tell he was trying very hard to not throw a tantrum in front of the people around them.

“I’d like to buy your work.” René gesticulated to the pictures hanging on the walls. “All of it. Take it as an apology for our last meeting.”

Mick scoffed.  
“Piss off before I kick your ass.”

“Come on, say a price.”

“I’m sorry mate, but I’d like to sell my work to someone who actually appreciates it.”  
He clenched his jaw.

“Oh! But I do. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Especially your erotic pictures…” he lowered his voice and got closer. “I’ll never forgive myself for missing the chance to let you photograph me in such a raw, intimate way.”

Mick stepped in even closer and spoke through his teeth. “If you didn’t leave in the morning with all that I hold dearest to my heart, do you have any bloody idea how long it took me to gather enough money- “  
A group of people walked by a little too close and Mick stepped away, trying to keep his composure.  
“Just leave. Please.”

“How much,” René insisted. 

Mick shook his head.  
“Alright. I’ll tell you what. Ten thousand dollars and they’re all yours.”

René lifted his eyebrows. He patted his pockets, then he reached into the inside of his suit and whipped out a checkbook. He clicked a pen open and Mick watched him as he nonchalantly wrote him a check with four zeros on it.  
He signed it and ripped it off the checkbook, holding it out.  
Mick took it with hesitant hands. He looked at it, then back at René, then back at it.  
That’s a lot of groceries, his first thought was.

“At what time do you finish?”  
René asked, putting the items back inside the jacket.

Mick snapped out of it and looked up from the precious piece of paper.  
“The exhibition closes at eight, I think.” 

René clapped his gloved hands together.  
“In time for dinner! I’ll come back at eight, there’s an Italian restaurant just around the corner. They make this marinara that is simply an epiphany for the senses.” He started stepping away. “I’ll send someone to pick up the photographs. Wrap them up for me, will you?”

“René,” Mick spoke slowly, and sadly. “Throwing money at my feet won’t make me trust you again.”

René looked over his shoulder.  
Damn it, his side profile was perfect.

“I can at least try, non?” he asked, but it was more like a statement.  
“And, Mick,” he eyed the tall man up and down. “Please wear something decent. I do believe you can do better than this. You’re a rich man, now.”

Mick awkwardly looked down on his jeans and flannel shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a lot of groceries innit


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit of a longer chapter to settle things down, i swear there's an actual plot

And so they went out for dinner.

  


“Is that your idea of a decent outfit?” René pointed out, looking at Mick’s brand new Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants.

  


“I like it,” he replied, now very self-conscious about it.

  


René just sighed and headed inside the restaurant.

It was way too fancy for a simple man like Mick.

His leg was bouncing under the table.

  


“Order whatever you want. I’ll pay,” René said from behind the menu.

  


“Yeah, listen,” Mick started. René looked up.

“I’ll be honest with you, mate, you don’t have to do… all of this,” Mick looked around and gesticulated at the rest of the restaurant.

René lifted an eyebrow.

“I haven’t forgotten what you did to me, you know.”

  


René put down the menu and offered Mick his right hand.

Mick stared back with an interrogative look.

  


“Can we start again?” he asked with a genuinely sweet smile, almost ashamed.

The Australian smiled back and shook his hand.

  


“Mick Mundy.”

  


“René Badeaux. Pleased to meet you.”

They toasted with Tignanello red wine and the glasses made a loud _clink_.

  


The marinara was great. The sex, even better.

A week later, René invited Mick to eat out again. And again. And again. He always paid. He would pick him up in that shiny car, Mick could hear the rumble from far away. René would often let the man fuck him in the backseat, on the expensive leather.

  


“I’m not setting foot in that van again,” he told him once, smoking out of the car window.

  


“We could go at your place, you know,” Mick suggested while tracing a scar on his back. The man’s entire body was covered in scars. Some looked like cuts, others like bullet wounds.

“How did you get these?” he asked, looking up at the other’s face.

  


René paused and turned his face away.

“Just the past leaving a mark on my skin.”

  


\---

  


Mick just couldn’t get enough of the man. Hell, he barely knew him. He didn’t know if he was married, if he had children, where he lived or what his occupation was. Every time Mick tried to ask about any of this, René would deflect or shut him out completely.

During the day, when they were separated, while working or exercising, awake or asleep, all Mick could think about was him. His touch, his body, that odd laugh of his, and the musky cologne that stuck on his own clothes hours after their meetings. Just him, him, him.

  


One day, René told Mick that he was going to leave California. For work, he said.

Come with me, he said.

 _I can’t. I have all my life here,_ Mick wanted to reply. In a split of second he realized his whole life revolved around that French man, now. He was willing to give up his apartment, his routine, his career, and his friends, just to be near the other. Just to maybe, catch some of his greatness, and maybe, admire it for a while. And, just maybe, if Mick was lucky, or good enough, he hoped René would let him stay and soak into it. In a matter of a few weeks, René had the Australian in the palm of the hand. He just had to find a good use for him.

  


Of course, Mick accepted.

  


On Monday, they drove all the way to Montana, in the countryside. Not too far from the nearest city, but still surrounded by greenery. It was a day-long drive. Just to show Mick the house, apparently. And by house, he meant villa.

And René’s villa was nothing less to expect from a man like him.

Three floors, a pool and a shiny black car with obscured windows parked in the garage.

  


“I furnished it all myself,” René stated proudly at one point of the house tour.

  


“You have better taste in interior design than

you have in men,” Mick replied as he looked around in awe.

The French laughed so hard he began snorting.

  


\---

  


They had an Aperol Spritz accompanied by olives, fresh cheese and warm bread on the balcony of the villa.

  


“Before you make a decision, we have to talk. About my son,” René said while lighting up a cigarette.

Mick froze. So, he had a son. He tried not to show the surprise on his face.

“It pains me, but I have to address it.”

Mick leaned forward to rest his elbows on the glass table.

“He will come back home later this week and I wanted to have a proper conversation about it. I understand if you choose not to pursue this relationship anymore-“

  


“You know I’d never do that.”

  


René looked into Mick’s eyes as to make sure he wasn’t lying. Then he kept going.

  


“His name is Jeremy. You might have heard of him, he’s…” René was struggling to find the right words. “He’s quite famous in the sports field. I believe he won a few Baseball Tournaments. What was it called, the- in San Diego?”

  


A light bulb went off in Mick’s head.

“Jeremy? Jeremy Campbell? Is that your son?”

  


“Unfortunately, yes.”

  


“Holy dooley.”

Mick was staring blankly, trying to process the new information. Jeremy Campbell was quite the controversial character, from how the newspapers and radios pictured him. Mick wasn’t particularly interested in baseball, but he knew about a few scandals that involved his name. Gambling, love triangles, eccentric and reckless partying. He went under process, too. Mick saw him on the news a long time ago. Doping, maybe. He generally had a bad reputation, only balanced by the millions of devoted fans around America.

  


“You don’t have the same last name,” Mick pointed out.

  
“He got it from his mother. Decided to keep it. Guess I’m not the only one who’s ashamed of our blood relation.”

  


“Can I ask, where is she now?”

  


“Don’t worry, I left her a long time ago. She raised Jeremy, and his other five brothers- “

  


“You left her with five kids?”

  


“Oh, non. Those weren’t mine. She raised them, but I imagine eventually they became too much of an expense.”

  


“Go figure.”

  


“She wasn’t doing too well economically, unfortunately.”

  


“She could have asked you for money.”

  


“She did, but… I disappeared for a reason.”

  


Mick sat in silence.

Whatever the hell that meant, René didn’t add anything else. Maybe another day.

  


“Anyways, after Jeremy’s eighteen’s birthday, she sent him to me,” René continued, as he took a long drag. “I still have no clue on how she found me. She left this scared, angry kid I’ve never even met, quite literally on my doorstep. He hates me ever since.”

  


“Did you love her?” Mick spoke up.

  


“Yes.”

  


“I’m sorry.”

  


“It’s in the past.”

René reached out for Mick’s hand and lightly squeezed it, fingers laced together.

Mick smiled, eyes low, and held his hand tighter.

  


“I’m surprised the kid didn’t try to go back to his mother,” he said, retreating the hand.

  


René leaned back into the chair, eyebrows furrowed. “He often likes to go on about how he’ll find her after he’s out of rehab. And live a better life. And I truly hope he does. Until then…” he sighed. “I’m stuck with the little nuisance.”

  


“Jeremy is in rehab?”

  


“Technically. On paper, that is. It’s a habit of him, going in and out of rehabilitation programs. I gave up on the clinics,” René scoffed. “A waste of time and money. He gets clean for two, three weeks, and then, he proceeds to get back to using as soon as he’s dismissed.” He shook his head.

“Now, our trusted medic handles it. And, as his biological father of course, I have the obligation to keep an eye on him.”

He took another drag.

“That’s why he still lives with me at the age of 26, if you were wondering. And of course, to drain my funds.”

He put the cigarette out in the ashtray.

  


\---

  


They never touched the topic again.

Mick moved in two days after.

He loaded his van with as much stuff as possible.

  


“This could be a job opportunity for you,” René said while helping him pack.

“I often travel a lot, so you can photograph all kind of places. You could bring your equipment.”

  


Mick wiped off the sweat off his forehead.

“Yeah.” He squinted his eyes in the LA sun.

“Yeah, I could do that.”

I could do that, he repeated to himself.

  


\---

  


René gave him a bedroom near his, on the second floor. Mick even had his own bathroom. A significant upgrade for someone who showered with a bag of water and a rubber tube.

  


The men rinsed themselves with some gin tonic, and though they were both tired from the long trip, they soon began kissing and tearing off each other’s clothes.

  


They moved onto the queen sized bed and Mick was soon groaning and sweating, trying to figure out how to get a better grip on the bed frame, when René said something in French under him. It sounded like _“I love you”_. He stopped and looked down into his eyes and that warm feeling he felt for the first time was rising up in his chest again.

  


“Say that again,” he panted out.

  


René grabbed him by the jaw and pulled him closer, and whispered in his ear.

  


“ _Je t’aime, garçon_.”

  


  


_Je t’aime, je t’aime, je t’aime,_ he kept crying out as Mick fucked him deep and slow.

  


\--

  


The Australian fell asleep with his face buried in René’s neck, head resting on those soft, scented pillows, their bodies tangled and wrapped in silk sheets. As he was dozing off, Mick felt so numbly happy he could die in that very moment.

Life was finally showing him a path to redemption. To free himself from the past. Maybe restart a new life with René. Forget about all the horrible things he did.

 _Would he still love me if I told him?_ Mick asked himself.

  


That night, he dreamt about blood clouds and cactuses.


End file.
